Tangles and Songs
by Fangita
Summary: Drabbles featuring a Spirit of Mercy!Inquisitor and Cole. Kink meme fills.
1. Chapter 1

"We're different."

Matthew slowed his already leisurely pace, brought on by the mundane yet peaceful landscape of the Hinterlands, to glance down at Cole. Compassion stilled at his side, so close that the rim of his hat brushed his shoulder, the worn wool of his gloves itching into Matthew's palm with the tightening of his fingers. Cole hadn't let go, even after the veil smoothed again and what was real was revealed to him. He clutched Matthew's hand, still needing to be grounded, though Matthew hardly minded, musing on Compassion anchoring his mark-free hand, wishing to be anchored. It felt much better than the other hand.

Behind them, Solas fell back, content with his distance beneath the cool shade of a scattering of trees, observing them with calm and contagious curiosity. It stirred Matthew's attention back to Cole.

"Are we different?" Cole's statement became a question, along with his confusion flipping in on itself. Like a mirror reflection ricocheted onto another's. The feelings bounced back and forth and _in_ and it takes him longer to reply.

This is all brought on by a mild ripple in the veil. He knew what it was before Solas even explained to an overwhelmed Cole, who had looked suffocated in his own skin, sight shifting between the disturbed layers, on unrealities trying to uniform. He was, more or less, used to the currents of the veil, though the rifts did provide more problems. Still, all he suffered was broken breathes, a passing moment of remembrance, reflections already passed pressing reality into his bones. But he knew he wasn't a child, that child whose mother cried the Chant and begged for the Maker's mercy as he choked for life, and knew he was him all the same.

The moment is only that, he adapted and was fine after a deep exhale. He's used to it. Cole isn't. So he took his hand without question, told Cole to hold firm and focus. 'Breath. Be here. Be you.' The tactic is different to the other spirit, askance adding to acceptance and, after gentle gratitude, leading to their current conversation.

Matthew pursed his lips, a habit mimicked and not made, to mock contemplation.

"Yes. No." It's not indecision, its...

"Both." Cole finished, looking down from too bright green eyes. "You forgive them. See the hurt and hatred, banging, burning, bruising...but you don't shake the pearl loose."

"Some things make people more. Pearls come at a price but are pretty-if worn right. I try to..." Matthew waved a vague hand, swinging the other still in Cole's grasp. "Make it manageable. Mistakes make marks, but also add more."

"You help." The hand tightened.

"I try."

Cole considered that in silence and Matthew's brows pinched.

"You do the same." He reassured.

"But I don't always do it right."

Matthew smiled. "Not every one looks good in pearls." Cole huffed softly, almost catching the chuckling in his throat, though Matthew isn't sure if he's just picking up on his own amusement. "You shake them loose and fix the fabric. Pinching with the right pressure and pin. It takes a few times and you prick your fingers, practice makes perfect."

"You help." Matthew said, the seriousness of his statement setting off understanding.

"Yes and no." Cole repeated. "I don't really like pearls."

"They are rather plain." Matthew picked up their previous pace, with a small smile to Solas as he caught up to them.

"All is well, I hope?" Both answered the elf with a 'yes', the cheerier note from a still smiling Matthew. Cole squeezed his hand in response or reflex, emotion arching up his arm. It prompted him to look down.

Before he could ask or pick up on his thread of thought: "Mercy and compassion...Matthew and Cole."

Solas' amused hum was warm. Focusing again on them, elvhen artifacts momentary forgotten, he chimed in with: "Rather fitting and ironic, all things considered."

Cole actually chuckled that time, titling his head to level an almost endearing look to Matthew, the prolonged eye contact speaking volumes.

"I like holding your hand."

"Would you like to do it more often? Even when you don't need it?"

Cole blinked. "I...think I _want_ to need it."

The smile he gave him already ensured Matthew's instant compliance, and with a light laugh he threaded their fingers together.

"As you wish."


	2. Chapter 2

Matthew was conflicted.

Everything was a flurry of emotion. Too much, he's trying to dig through but it all just collapsed and consumed. Compassion was unhinged, hanging on the dying breath of a boy forgotten in the dark. He felt the ache, tight and twisted about his ribs, a void where his stomach is. All of it is from Cole, but Matthew knew the burn at the back of throat is all his own panic and pressure. The Templar's regret is burned to his tongue and he nearly gags around the taste trying to weave the words that would find no place within Cole.

Compassion, who can't see straight, can't focus pass the pain of the forgotten Cole's death. Compassion saw the hurt and its cause, not further into the consequences, and his body craves to cut. Fear of blood magic bonds boils into fits of bloodied fists that clenched white, it takes both Solas and Varric hurrying and a shout from Matthew to stop his blades. They bounce words between them as the Templar fled, through Matthew, with his brow furrowed and heavy, back and forth with no footing gained, which is granted to mean they will let the Inquisitor decide. For them, for Cole.

Forgiving or forging forward? Being more like he should be or being more than he could be?

The Stone wanted to weigh him down: heavy with hurt, but of his own to be attended to and held. The Shadow wished the litter lifted: nothing but what Compassion is, but nothing else to cling and color.

He had been Mercy, was Mercy but muted. He had adapted and bore the wishes and woes in the world of change. He sighed, rubbing a hand across his eyes. 'Pearls come at a price,' he remembered, 'but are pretty if worn right.' Matthew already knew his choice and he holds it even with the doubt that he could be wrong, could stop not only the amulet from working but Cole's purpose. The bad taste in his mouth intensified at the thought.

"You don't like pearls." Matthew murmured, peering through his fingers at Cole. Cole just continued pacing, nails dug into itchy palms, the wool of his gloves fraying and Matthew recalled the the feel of them. "And my hand will not shackle or shake loose. It'll stay, but I cannot lead you in this."

His hat hid a lot. The world from Cole, and Cole from it. Yet Matthew still caught the almost hurt look in Compassion's eyes and how his pacing paused, felt it drag down under the burning, the black ache to sink sharply into his chest. He quickly swallowed passed the nasty persistence in his throat. "The Stone is weighting and weary but sure." He gestured to Varric, his decision made. "Let him help."

They head off for their confrontation. Matthew and Solas are left waiting, the elf staring wondering inquiries into the back of his head. The disapproval was heavy on his tongue, disappointment that dragged on everything else heavy on his shoulders.

"This may only make matters worse." He said. Matthew was worn on things being worse, but it only made him want to make everything better all the more.

"He'll remember this. Live and learn to be better than the pain he might've caused. Gain something that forgetting would let slip." It was all Matthew deigned to say, fighting to focus more on Cole; his finger tense, trigger trembling, but arms falling with the bolt still notched. He tried to smile, but his mouth numbed. When Solas asked whom he was referring to, the ex-Templar or Cole, and what would be done should he be wrong, he kept his silence. He wanted to say, 'can't it be both?' 'can't this be right?', but he knew better.

That was not how the world worked.


End file.
